21. Today I woke up/and you were gone/the whole day wondering/what I did wrong/it's like I'm falling from a mountaintop/my heart keeps pounding/and it won't stop/can you see this hell I'm living/I'm not giving up/will you crawl to me/will you fall with me/I'll never crawl to you/I've done it all for you/well don't deny/the hand that feeds you, needs you/Oh god I'd die to try to/finally please you

He woke relatively early the next morning – well what he thought was relatively early. Ten in the morning might be late to someone else. He rolled onto his side, instinctively reaching out for her body. He was surprised when his arm ended up sprawled across an empty space on the mattress. Immediately he forced himself up on his elbows glancing around his empty bedroom. Sunlight filtered through the window by his bed, lighting the small room, highlighting the mess on the floor.

"Faith?" he called out. He didn't know why. He already knew she'd probably left. He swung his legs out the side of the bed, pulling on his boxers that lay on the floor by the bed. Walking out into the hall, he ran a hand over his gruff face, the stubble rough against his palm. On his way, he bent over to pick up items of his clothing that lay strewn on the ground. As he reached the living room he stopped in the doorway to survey the damage. A lamp by the sofa had fallen to the ground, along with several photo frames that had smashed into pieces. Over by the hallstand, papers lay over the floor along with his cordless phone, which he would be surprised, if it too wasn't broken.

He let out a sigh, throwing his clothes over the back of the sofa as he made his way to the kitchen. He began to search for something to eat, but a piece of clean crisp white paper on the counter top caught his eye. He frowned, picking it up. His name was written across the front in a scrawl he had come to know well over the years from mountains of paper work. Faith. He turned it over to find only one more word on the note.

'Sorry'.

He wasn't exactly sure how to take that. Did she mean sorry for running out? Sorry for arguing with him? Or sorry, that was a mistake and will never happen again? He stared at the word for several more seconds before scrunching it up and throwing it at the garbage can.

He stomped over to the sink, turning on the tap as he reached for a glass. He filled it about halfway before taking one gulp. He leant on the counter top, his hands gripping the edge as he repressed the urge to scream. Eventually he lost the will to try and spun around throwing the glass at the wall opposite. It hit with a loud smash, water trickling down the white paint. He stared breathless at the wall.

"I'm not sure the wall deserved that," a voice said in his ear. He turned sharply to face his mother. She stood cautiously in the doorway, gazing at her son. She had a brown paper bag tucked under her left arm, and a bunch of flowers occupying her other hand.

"I…I didn't hear you come in," he choked out, watching as she placed both items on the table. She shook her head.

"I doubt you would have Maurice, look at the state of this place!" she exclaimed examining the room, "What on earth have you done in here Maurice Louis Boscorelli? This place is a tip!"

"Ma…don't start," he sighed, exasperated. She turned on him sharply wagging her finger in his face.

"Don't tell me not to start!" she replied, frowning, "I am not your cleaner Maurice! Don't treat me like one!"

"I never asked for your help Ma!" he spat back.

"I know! But that it what you do for family! You help them in times of difficulty!" she retorted, watching as her son flopped down on the sofa. He placed his head in his hands and groaned. For some reason her anger was replaced with motherly concern and she moved over to sit beside him.

"What's wrong my baby boy?" she asked, her hand massaging the curls in his hair.

"I messed up Ma. I messed up real bad."

"Oh. Sweetheart, nothing is so bad that it can't be fixed."

"This…this is bad Ma…"

She sat quiet, her fingers weaving through his dark hair. She remembered when he was a small child and she would sit for hours, cradling him to sleep, combing his thick hair with her hands. It was the only way he'd ever feel comforted enough to close his bright eyes.

"Tell me what's wrong…" she urged gently. He sighed, shaking his head. For several moments he just sat in silence, his face buried into his hands. Eventually he sat up casting his gaze to the far away wall.

"Faith…Faith was here last night."

"And what? You two had a fight? Is that what the mess is? Oh my God! You didn't hit her, did you Maurice?"

"No Ma! No! I didn't hit her…" he replied, his tone firm, "In fact…we didn't even fight…not really…."

"Then wha-" she stopped abruptly, her eyes changing. He couldn't even look at her. "Maurice…what time did she leave?"

"I…I dunno…"

"Oh Maurice!" she scolded, frowning, "Maurice, Maurice, Maurice. What am I going to go with you?"

He shook his head, wiping his eyes free from the wetness that was beginning to form in his lids.

"But…aren't you seeing a girl? You were telling me about her…Erin or something?" Rose asked. He nodded and was surprised when he felt the back of his mother's hand make contact with his head.

"You stupid boy!" she yelled.

"Ow! Ma!" he cried out, rubbing the spot. She stood angrily, her finger pointing in his face.

"You cannot treat women this way Maurice! They are not objects you can replace when you get bored! I did not raise you that way! You will not be your father!" she screamed.

"Ma, would you just calm down?" he asked. Her face reddened at his request and she advanced on him, poking his chest.

"No I will not! Faith is your friend! What did you think this would achieve? No wonder she left! I wouldn't want to speak with such an immature brat either! She's probably ashamed of herself!"

"Well thanks for that Ma. That made me feel a lot better. And people wonder why I have physiological issues…"

"You, Maurice Boscorelli, cannot keep blaming your problems on others! For once in your life take responsibility for your actions! Be a man!"

That was all it took for Bosco to snap.

"People have been telling me to be a man since I was eight years old! Remember how I had to grow up fast just so I could leave home? Remember how I had to grow up fast because I had to look after myself from an early age huh? I remember! And maybe if you hadn't been such a lousy mother and stopped drinking for a while-"

Rose's palm collided sharply with her son's cheek. "Don't you dare!" she hissed, "Don't you dare…I was being abused…"

"More fool you."

"I've had enough," Rose mumbled, gathering her handbag. She headed for the front door.

"Does the truth hurt Ma?" he yelled after her.

"You're pushing everyone that cares for you away. If you continue like this you'll have no one left," she said. And with that she was gone, leaving him breathless and angry.